


Withered Is The Triumphal Wreath

by Alley_Skywalker



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: Angst, Duelling, M/M, poets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 04:07:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/37637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/pseuds/Alley_Skywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexander Pushkin's final duel and the night before it from Mikhail Lermontov's POV. Inspired by the poem "On the Death of a Poet" by Lermontov.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Withered Is The Triumphal Wreath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chainsaw_poet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chainsaw_poet/gifts).



> Sasha is the Russian short form of the name Alexander (as well as its female counterpart, Alexandra). Likewise, Misha is the Russian short form for Mikhail.  
> The title is taken from Lermontov's poem "On the Death of a Poet"

“Do you have to do this?”

 

“Yes.” There is no room for argument in that affirmative.

 

“But why?” His voice rises to an uncharacteristic, frantically high pitch.

 

“Because it is the only honorable thing to do. Because she is my wife.”

 

_Wife._ The word hurts and stings and burns a deep hole in his heart that refuses to heal. ”Sasha…”

 

“Don’t.”

 

He stares up at Alexander with pleading eyes of a terrified boy. He is twenty-three but he feels much younger. “He’ll kill you.”

 

“He might. Mikhail, the matter is decided. I can’t go on like this, I can’t allow this…this…_scoundrel _to defile my honor and that of my wife.”

 

Mikhail looks down, his cheeks are flushed and breathing is extremely difficult. “I always knew that you love her more than me. You worship her and you are willing to die for her.”

 

“Don’t mix duty and honor with love. They are two different things.”

 

Mikhail stands and paces to the window. He turns his back to Alexander who is writing something by the fire, and leans his forehead against the cold glass. Outside a blizzard is starting up, painting the world white. Sterile white, where nothing lives or thrives. A clean slate about to be written on in crimson red. “I’m scared, Sasha. You are the only one who understands me, the only one whose heart echoes mine. We’re both poets and we feel things so strongly, so deeply. We are both easily wounded and just as easily taken in. I’m so scared that I might lose you that I can barely breathe.” All this comes out in a torrent, a rush of barely audible breathlessly whispered words that fade so quickly into the silence of the room that it is like they were never spoken.

 

Mikhail doesn’t turn, doesn’t move. He feels drained and emotionally exhausted. Alexander comes up behind him, silently and gently wraps both arms around his waist. “I love you, Misha. There are few honorable people in this world and you are one of them.” Alexander nuzzles his hair and repeats in the same, soothing whisper. “I love _you_.”  

 

***

 

No matter how much he had begged and pleaded, Alexander would not allow him to be one of his seconds. _“You don’t need to see this.”_ But Mikhail knows that he would go insane waiting for the news. So when Alexander leaves at dawn, he follows him, stealthily, meekly, with a heart that is racing so fast that he can barely think for the insistent pounding.

 

The blizzard from the other night had died but the wind is cold and biting, stinging his cheeks and penetrating his coat. On any other day he would have noticed how beautiful the woods look. The branches of bare trees are covered with soft virgin snow and glittering icicles, that hang down like diamond earrings. The woods are still, quiet, almost ethereal, trapped in a snow spell. Time itself stops here. But on this day, Mikhail can not see anything but the fetal scene unfolding before him. He hides behind a tree some ways off and peeks out like a hunted rabbit. The duelists and their seconds are too preoccupied to look around and notice him.

 

He watches as the paces are measured and the swords pierce the snow at the limit points. He feels like a spectator at a theater performance, completely entranced by the events before him but absolutely unable to interact or intervene with them in any way. The pistols are distributed, the rules read in a steady, hollow monotone by one of the seconds, and the duelists are left center stage, some twenty-six paces apart, facing each other with cold vengeance in their eyes.

 

Mikhail breathes in a gulp of cold air as the count starts.

 

“”One.”

 

_His first Petersburg ball in all its glory. A young man coming up with one of his friends for an introduction. “Mikhail, allow me to introduce you, Alexander Pushkin—“_

 

“Two.”  




 

_Soft ember glow of the fire. Red wine. Alexander pacing around the room, re-reading something he’d thrown together on the spur of the moment. “Lermontov, come tell me what you think of this.” He wants his opinion!_

 

“Three. Begin.”

_Arms wrapped around his waist. “You have great talent. I have all the faith in the world in you. Such emotion! Such purity! Tell, do you have any particular inspiration?” He does. Love. _

 

A single report pierces the still winter air.

 

***
    
    
    _The Poet's dead! - a slave to honor -_
    
    
    
    _He fell, by rumor slandered,_
    
    
    
    _Lead in his breast and thirsting for revenge,_
    
    
    
    _Hanging his proud head!..._
    
    
    
    _The Poet's soul could not endure_
    
    
    
    _Petty insult's disgrace._
    
    
    
    _Against society he rose,_
    
    
    
    _Alone, as always...and was slain!_
    
    
    
    _Slain!...What use is weeping now,_
    
    
    
    _The futile chorus of empty praise_
    
    
    
    _Excuses mumbled full of pathos?_
    
    
    
    _Fate has pronounced its sentence!_
    
    
    
    _Was it not you who spitefully_
    
    
    
    _Rebuffed his free, courageous gift_
    
    
    
    _And for your own amusement fanned_
    
    
    
    _The nearly dying flame?_
    
    
    
    _Well now, enjoy yourselves...he couldn't_
    
    
    
    _Endure the final torture:_
    
    
    
    _Quenched is the marvelous light of genius,_
    
    
    
    _Withered is the triumphal wreath._
    
    
    
    -- Mikhail Lermontov, “On the Death of a Poet”

 

**Author's Note:**

> You know, I remember thinking during nominations and sign-ups how cool it would be if someone wrote these two in a paring. I really never thought I'd be the one to do it but I just couldn't walk past this prompt. Something about duels, angst, Russian boys, and a bit of slash thrown in mikes me ridiculously happy *g* Happy Holidays! Hope I didn't disappoint!


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